


ad astra per aspera

by Lecrit



Series: alea iacta est [3]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec is a Little Shit, Con Artists, Friends With Benefits, Light Angst, M/M, Magnus is also a little shit, Mild Smut, POV Alec Lightwood, True love right there, and deep conversations, and feelings, but they're not really friends, for some reason, there's a plane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24627109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lecrit/pseuds/Lecrit
Summary: The second rule was broken the moment Isabelle came back from the Brooklyn Academy of Art with the widest grin Alec had ever seen her bear on her face and a tilt to her steps that was disconcerting at best and worrying at worst.So it is left to Alec to uphold it, and it is why he should walk away.
Relationships: (background), Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Series: alea iacta est [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673011
Comments: 87
Kudos: 378





	ad astra per aspera

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all,
> 
> Please use #lecrit if you're live-tweeting or tag me [@_L_ecrit](https://twitter.com/_L_ecrit)
> 
> Happy reading!

Isabelle was the first to break their second rule.

It started, like most things in their life, with a con. The mark was an art collector from Manhattan who had been scamming young, struggling artists into giving away their copyright on their works and then selling them for a little fortune to his vast network of European bourgeoisie who were seeking a hit for their next garden party. Alec had stumbled upon him at an extravagant soirée in the Upper West Side and he had immediately complained to Isabelle about how insufferable the man was. It was Isabelle who had officialised his addition to the ever growing list of their victims, and who had come up with a plan.

Two days later, she visited the Brooklyn Academy of Art, passing as a wealthy patron looking to commission one of their students for a piece. Two students were recommended to them, and although Alec hadn’t been there to witness it, he always imagined that Isabelle had only needed to lay eyes on Clary Fairchild before making her decision.

They had intended on paying Clary very handsomely for an identical replica of an old Renaissance painting that Alec would then sell to their victim with the assurance and certification that it was the original and that the fake was, in fact, the one hanging on a wall in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Alec had dubious feelings about that plan but Isabelle, as often, was right: sometimes, the more absurd and the bigger the lie is, the easier it is to sell it to an unsuspecting mark willing to believe anything as long as you offer him the promise of money coming his way.

Clary was only halfway through the painting when Alec realized his little sister had fallen in love.

It had been scary, at first. It had begun as a swarm of suffocating thoughts playing around in his brain, with a voice ushering at the back of his mind that he would lose his best friend to someone worthier than himself, and then he would have to prove to the world that he could master the art of being alone with the same dexterity and ingenuity he had everything else. There were days where his mind was nothing but a cold fire, smothering panic and the same recurring questions kicking into the ground a man who was already down.

Who are you going to call?

Who are you going to lie to when you say you are okay?

Ever since Jace had left to join the ranks of the FBI –which, albeit disturbing, could turn out to be most helpful on certain occasions– it had been just the two of them. Him and his little sister, watching names pile up on their list of successful marks and toasting to a job well done. Him and his little sister, against the rest of the world. It was never supposed to be him, his little sister, and her unreasonable girlfriend who cared too little about their rules and too much about her own shrunken perception of the world.

She was a liability, and Isabelle should have known better than to allow her into their lives for longer than was strictly necessary. The fact that his little sister had discarded the rules that were meant to protect them, had fear pooling deep into Alec’s stomach.

And then, there was only annoyance. Not towards Isabelle, because matters of the heart were out of one’s control and Alec could never blame his little sister for anything, not even when her guilt was beyond doubt. Clary was the problem.

After a lengthy argument –which Isabelle had chosen to call a debate– that had amounted to nothing but the both of them being heedlessly angry at each other and Isabelle not listening to a word he said, Alec eventually caved. In retrospect, he thinks he understood back then that if he kept pressing, Isabelle would end up resenting him for it, and that was scarier even than divulging the truth to someone they barely knew.

His qualms had proven to be true, not so much because Clary exposed them for the crooks they were, but because the moment Isabelle told her the truth, she simply refused to stop asking questions, and then act like she knew more about their business than Alec, who had already been doing it for the better part of five years at the time.

Alec had almost wanted to turn himself in just so he could get away from her.

Still, she has kept their secret, and although Isabelle and Clary are still going strong two years later, Alec lives with the nagging idea in the back of his mind that someday, Clary will prove by herself what a liability she truly is.

He is just waiting for Isabelle to realize it, too. It is no small feat, what with her being equally if not more stubborn than he is and being blinded by love to all of Clary’s insufferable quirks.

The second rule was broken the moment Isabelle came back from the Brooklyn Academy of Art with the widest grin Alec had ever seen her bear on her face and a tilt to her steps that was disconcerting at best and worrying at worst.

So it is left to Alec to uphold it, and it is why he should walk away.

The rules are meant to protect them, and that has always been Alec’s first priority.

He should leave, really. It was already difficult an hour ago when he found out what Magnus was truly doing and how utterly he had fucked up by purposely driving Lorenzo Rey away out of mostly pettiness, but it is even more so now that they are tangled in a mess of naked limbs and chasing lips and Magnus is buried inside him, fingers mapping constellations over Alec’s skin that Alec is sure will tingle long after they part.

He doesn’t even know how they wound up in bed. He knows that one moment he was trying to apologize for messing up Magnus’ plan and Magnus was telling him to fuck off, and the next he was being kissed, which he had tried to argue was sending him quite dizzying mixed signals, but the smirk at the corner of his lips had been smothered alongside the words in the back of his throat when Magnus had grabbed his hips and pushed him against the wall.

So, well, Alec just went along with it. They never did get to this, when he met a man who wore Magnus’ face but a different name. Alec would be lying to himself if he pretended it hasn’t been trotting on his mind every time he has allowed himself to wander back to taunting amber eyes and the sensual curve of a smirk. Most of the time, his mind has done the wandering by itself without Alec really allowing it, but surely their current position will put an end to that. 

Magnus nibbles at his bottom lip, slowly grinding his hips against Alec’s ass, and Alec’s breath catches in his throat before billowing, heavy and hot, in Magnus’ neck.

“Can you stop thinking so loudly when I’m fucking you?” Magnus hisses. His fingers dig into Alec’s hips, and he gives a punishing thrust up.

Alec laughs despite the hitch in his breath and pulls his face away from Magnus’ burning skin to smirk down at him.

“Maybe you should fuck me better then.”

Magnus lifts an eyebrow in a manner that is meant to warn Alec of the consequences to his own audacity. There is a challenge in his eyes –another– and Alec barely has time to brace himself against Magnus’ shoulders before he wraps an arm around Alec’s waist and pushes his hips up to roll them around. Alec’s back hits the mattress in a blur of movement, and Magnus smirks down at him before quashing Alec’s smug retort with an open-mouthed kiss. 

Fingers trail down his arms, brushing lightly over his wrists and then pressing to pin him down. Alec draws back to send Magnus as blank a look he can muster considering the circumstances.

“No you don’t,” he mumbles, pulling his wrists away from Magnus’ touch.

Magnus chuckles, low and breathy, and licks his lips. “I guess that’s fair.”

Alec snorts, rolling his eyes, and reaches down to take a hold of their cocks in one hand, leaning up to kiss Magnus again. They are already worked up more than enough, because it only takes a couple more minutes for Magnus to come into his hand and over their stomachs, Alec joining him over the edge just a moment later.

Magnus rolls on his back next to him, panting heavily, his muscular chest glistening with a thin layer of perspiration. Somehow, he still looks as collected as ever; the only dent in his impassive persona is the mess Alec made of his hair.

Alec takes a moment to catch his breath too, and turns his head to him.

“Are you going to let me apologize? Or make it up to you?”

Magnus purses his lips and pushes off the bed, his muscles flexing and rippling as he moves to the bathroom. Alec hears water running before Magnus walks back into the room, a delicate, midnight blue silk robe covering his shoulders but opened on his toned stomach.

“I think you’ve just done that,” he says, acerb.

Alec runs a hand over his features, shaking his head. “Seriously,” he says, pushing himself into a sitting position, “I didn’t know how important this was. I wouldn’t have fucked this up for you if I had.”

“Don’t go all high and mighty now,” Magnus retorts, tone clipped into one of the many voices he uses when he plays the roles Alec has learned to master too. “You don’t owe me anything. We had sex, it was fun. I’ll pay you back for the watch when I’m done, and we can pretend our paths never crossed.”

The definitiveness of his words is written plainly on his features, and Alec would read it like an open book even if he weren’t so averse with the art of reading and deciphering people. Words have little meaning in this situation, not when Magnus is seeking reparation for something Alec can’t even begin to comprehend.

He can almost see the boy now that he knows, the terrified, devastated boy who watched his mother get killed before him and stood powerless to do anything about it. He can imagine the agony, the years spent crafting a body and a mind that would aid him in his pursuit of vengeance. Magnus has been meticulous about it. The papers scattered on the coffee table are enough of a proof. He collected intel, knew where to start and how to obtain the proofs that were cleverly hidden from both the law and the press so that Asmodeus Effendi would get away with it.

If Alec were in his shoes, he doesn’t know that he would have had the patience to construct a plan to bring his mother’s killer to justice rather than serve it himself.

He doesn’t know if he would have had the strength to stop himself from annihilating the arrogant crook who ruined it for the sake of a bruised ego and a need to reclaim his superiority.

Perhaps this is exactly why Magnus refuses to let Alec make it up to him. Alec can’t blame him for it, even though it should be pretty clear that Alec had no idea what exactly he was stepping into when he went after Magnus.

“How did you find me?” he asks, because it is quite obvious Magnus won’t indulge him into more than that.

Magnus turns back to him, his eyes raking over Alec’s naked form unabashedly. “I followed the trail of arrogance and bad elevator pitches.”

Alec rolls his eyes and in a swift movement, reaches out to grab Magnus by the lapels of his robe, pulling him forward until he is standing in front of him. “You said if we’d ever met again, you’d tell me,” he argues, although he questions himself the substance of his own argument.

Magnus smirks, genuine amusement flashing through his eyes for less than a second. “I said _maybe_ I’d tell you,” he retorts. His thumb brushes against Alec’s reddened and swollen bottom lip; the touch so light and heedless Alec wonders whether he realizes he’s doing it.

Alec slips a hand under Magnus’ robe, flicking a thumb over the red marks his fingers have left on Magnus’ hips. “How about this,” he says, looking up at Magnus through his eyelashes, “I help you, and in exchange you can tell me how you found me so I can make sure it never happens again and we disappear from each other’s lives forever.”

Magnus’ lips twitch with the beginning of a smile and he leans in, giving Alec a surprisingly chaste kiss considering the position they were in just ten minutes ago.

When he draws back, his lips hovering over Alec’s temptingly but not touching, there is a look of utter disdain in his beautiful amber eyes.

“Get the fuck out, pretty boy,” he murmurs, the harshness of the words clashing with the velvet of his tone, before pulling away entirely.

.

Men like Lorenzo Rey are easy to cheat.

It’s finding them bearable Alec finds more complicated.

When Alec spots him around six in the evening at the craps table, Lorenzo is distinctly more talkative, which, although helpful, makes it harder for Alec to avoid rolling his eyes every time he opens his mouth.

He doesn’t talk business, though, diverting the subject at Alec’s every subtle attempt to inquire further into him. He prefers to talk about the many lovely people, men and women alike, that he has met ever since he arrived in Las Vegas, which is a rather pathetic and clear attempt at peacocking in front of Alec.

In addition to his conquests, he’s talked politics, world affairs, sports and –irony of ironies– ethics. 

“It’s quite fun being a bachelor, I must say, Oliver,” he confides after Alec has managed to guide them away from the playing tables and to the bar.

Alec plasters Oliver’s charming smile on his face and licks his lips as he leans an elbow against the bar. “You’re preaching to the converted, Lorenzo.”

Lorenzo’s brows dip into a frown and he shifts on his stool, gaze drifting over Alec’s features. “What about your boyfriend? The one who’s supposed to be the source of your great luck.”

Alec shrugs nonchalantly, taking a sip of his drink. His gaze is resolutely fixated on the ranks of bottles lined up behind the bar. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him–” he leans in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Lorenzo’s eyes never leave him, captivated. “–or me.”

A smirk curves at the corner of Lorenzo’s lips. “Wanna get out of here?”

Alec cocks his head to the side, almost laughs at how effortless Lorenzo made this whole thing, but it is Oliver Smith that replies, tone heavy with desire Alec doesn’t feel the slightest hint of.

“Lead the way.”

The sense of déjà vu that courses through him is unsettling, but Alec refuses to believe he could be as easy to cheat as men like Lorenzo Rey.

.

Magnus leaves him knocking for two full minutes before he finally opens the door, after Alec expressly tells him that he knows Magnus hasn’t left the hotel yet, nor any of his aliases, because he charmed the receptionist into letting him check out their registration system.

Magnus gives him a look somewhere between extreme irritation and resignation, but steps aside to let Alec in.

“I took a page out of your book,” Alec says as he shuts the door behind him with his foot, handing Magnus a USB key that he takes warily, brows notched into a frown. “Although I believe it will take Lorenzo longer to get out of these handcuffs than it took me. Still, we should probably get going soon-ish, _babe_.”

Magnus goes still and blinks at him before his gaze falls on the key. “What’s on this?”

“Everything I could find about your father on his laptop,” Alec says offhandedly as he sinks into the couch with a smirk, arms spread against the back. Surprise crosses Magnus’ features, chasing away the lingering annoyance. “You’re in luck. Lorenzo is a paranoid bastard. He’s kept absolutely everything, even scanned older documents in case your father ever tried to fuck him over.”

“Probably more clever than paranoid,” Magnus points out, his fingers closing tightly around the USB key.

Alec hums absently. “I recognized one of the names on one of the files that was buried,” he says. “One of the cops charged with the investigation. I could help you get access to him.” He takes a deliberate pause, and looks up at Magnus through his eyelashes. “Unless you still don’t want my help, of course.”

Magnus lets out a beleaguered sigh and turns to him, his eyes catching the dim light drawing shadows against the wall and reflecting a resigned amusement he doesn’t quite manage to conceal. Alec is suddenly aware of his body in ways he wasn’t just a moment ago, every twitch and blink, the faint soreness lingering in his muscles, reminiscent of the night before. He swallows hard as Magnus shakes his head, allowing a smile to bloom on his handsome features.

“Is your damn stubbornness helpful in your line of business?” he asks, yielding at last.

Alec licks his lips, levels Magnus with a satisfied look and a lopsided grin. “No, but my innate charm certainly is.”

Magnus snorts, and pockets the USB key, moving to his luggage, already packed.

“It’s the nose dimple.”

His tone is lighter, almost teasing, but it is still strikingly different from what Alec was exposed to when he met Malcolm Black for the first time. This seems more personal, somehow more genuine.

Magnus picks up his luggage and turns back to him, studying him in silence for a moment. Alec looks right back, eyes trained on Magnus’ steady and slightly playful expression. It feels a lot more intimate than their activities of the night before ever did. Magnus’ gaze knocks the air out of Alec’s lungs more efficiently than the brush of his fingers against his ribs did, all coherent thoughts dashed to pieces under the intensity of warm amber.

“And the whole tall, dark and handsome thing also plays in your favor, I suppose,” he comments matter-of-factly, shrugging, and the moment –whatever it was meant to be– is abruptly over. “Let’s go then, pretty boy, we have a plane to catch.”

Alec lifts an eyebrow, but stands from the couch anyway. “We do?”

Magnus nods, leading the way to the hotel room. “You can tell me all about that name you recognized then, and we’ll decide how and in what way you can help.”

Alec smirks and follows Magnus to the elevator, leaning in close to him, lowering his voice to a teasing, heady undertone, “I’m sure I can help in more than one way, Magnus. I think it’s clear you shouldn’t underestimate me. I’m good at multitasking.”

Magnus glowers at him, but there isn’t any real heat behind it. The elevator dings as the doors slide open.

“Well, even with your many undoubtable talents, I doubt you can tell me what I need to know with my dick in your mouth.”

Magnus’ crudeness is enough to make a couple of ingenuous gamblers gasp on their way out of the elevator, and Alec almost chokes on his own spit but his shock quickly ebbs away when an impetuous laugh bubbles out of his chest, loud and staggering.

“Touché.”

Magnus smirks as he presses the button for the twelfth floor, and Alec doesn’t ask how and why Magnus knows where his own hotel room is. It’s clear they have some trust issues to work on.

.

When they board the plane, a steward sashays down the aisle in an elegant uniform, apologizing profusely for the mistake in Magnus’ booking, which only showed a private suite reserved for one person instead of two. Alec has always been mystified to witness how customer service is exceptionally better for people with lavish amounts of money, but as they are led to one of the private suites in question, ushered by the steward to the front section of the plane, he doesn’t care too much.

The cabin is almost wider than Alec’s first studio in New York, with two large leather armchairs facing huge flat-screen televisions placed side by side.

Alec curves an eyebrow at Magnus, but he is already busy chatting up the steward, reassuring him that the mistake is absolutely forgotten. Turning away, Alec drops in one of the chairs, leaving the window seat for Magnus, and takes a long sip of the gin and tonic that was already waiting for him on the console between their seats.

Magnus joins him a moment later, closing the door behind him. Alec could believe they are alone, the noise of the staff and the other customers boarding smothered almost completely. Magnus settles in his seat with all the poise and grace of someone who is both used to this kind of luxury and distinctly bored by it. Alec isn’t sure what to make of it.

He’s travelled his fair share, and although he has made a habit of avoiding econ, this is a whole other level of first class. This is sumptuous and a lot more comfortable than Alec usually allows himself, not so much because he is afraid of drawing attention but rather because he doesn’t want to grow sleek and careless as he tumbles down in an idle, luxurious life.

Magnus stretches his legs in front of him, clearly not experiencing any of Alec’s qualms, and plucks his own cocktail, before his head leans to the side to look at Alec.

“You’re being uncharacteristically silent.”

Alec shrugs, fiddling with the remote control for a moment. “What makes you think I’m not characteristically silent? You don’t know me that well.”

Magnus’ lips jump with the beginning of a smile, turning to the window as the plane starts moving, taxiing toward the runway.

“Not much of a talker when you don’t have to charm your way into getting what you want, I take it.”

“Again,” Alec says, with more emphasis than he expected to, “you don’t know me.”

Magnus turns to him, and his eyes bear a kindness Alec didn’t expect considering their rocky debuts, but also a strength that seems to be foreshadowing great dangers he can’t begin to grasp, like a summer breeze threatening to turn into an unforgiving storm. He’s impossible to read, truly, and at this point, the only thing Alec knows with absolute certainty is that Magnus Bane is nothing like anyone he’s met before.

“Do you?”

The words hang in the air between them as the plane hurtles skyward, and Alec is grateful for the opportunity to pretend this is why his breath stutters in his throat.

He doesn’t reply, lets a silence stretch between them for long minutes, until he is quite certain the topic won’t go back to who he is, who he knows himself to be and who he wishes he had been instead. They have five hours in front of them, and Alec isn’t going to let them turn into an introspection of himself where there is still so much about Magnus he doesn’t understand, so many questions that have been left hanging with no opening for him to peek and get a better idea on how to untangle the complexity wrapped around every shift of his face and curve of his mouth.

Where Malcolm Black was openly brazen about his attraction and offering blinding, deadly effective smiles, Magnus Bane is unapproachable.

There is a grace in his every move that captures the one submitted to it, but Alec knows better than to let himself be fooled –a second time, anyway– by a game he has learned to master throughout years of deception.

He knows exactly who he is and he knows exactly why he does, although he won’t tell Magnus.

It takes knowing who you are perfectly to hide it to the world.

This is why the second rule matters, why it is the cardinal one to Alec’s unswerving list. If no one knows who he truly is, then no one can have the power of becoming more than another forgettable face, more than a means to an end.

“What’s your plan?” he asks eventually.

Magnus blinks at him and for a moment, it is as if he had forgotten about Alec’s presence entirely, his gaze lost to the horizon, to the hosts of clouds lying beneath them, small and heaped in a harmonious chaos. He takes a sip of his drink, the ice cubes clinking melodiously against the glass in the lingering silence.

“Getting access to my father and confronting him with the truth.”

“And then what?”

Magnus shrugs. A slow grin blooms on his lips like a rose inexplicably burgeoning after having shed its leaves. It’s a bright smile, warm and lovely, yet it seems to poorly conceal the way Magnus’ brains are busy devising all the ways he can bring his enemies to their knees. It has Alec’s stomach lurching, for reasons he chooses not to examine further.

“Then I guess it depends on what he has to say,” Magnus says, almost too cheerful. “But let’s say I have an offshore account open and ready to dispatch my father’s money throughout all of my other accounts.”

Alec scoffs, tilting his head to Magnus. “That’s it?” he says. He doesn’t mean for his tone to come off as disbelieving as he does, but he has trouble trusting that Magnus’ sole motivation is money after he explicitly told him the opposite the night before. Which isn’t even accounting for the fact that Magnus has over two decades of undoubtedly traumatic memories to have fed his appetite for vengeance.

Magnus lifts an eyebrow and gives him a look of genuine surprise. “What else would you have me do, Alexander?”

Alec licks his lips. Magnus’ gaze shifts to them for a second and moves back to staring into Alec’s, his eyes spelling a world of trouble that Alec is terrified of exploring further, if only because he desperately _wants_ to.

A shiver runs down his spine, and Alec wonders if his body has already forgotten they had sex the night before, or if it’s exactly because it hasn’t forgotten that its Pavlovian reaction is so dizzyingly immediate.

“I don’t know,” Alec says truthfully, his hand dropping in the space between them, just an inch away from where Magnus’ fingers are curled around his glass. It would be easy to reach out, to let their knuckles brush together, but Alec doesn’t move and neither does Magnus. “You said you weren’t doing it for the money but for her, so I thought– I suppose I imagined you’d get him back… differently.”

“An eye for an eye.” There is a slight quiver to his tone, as if Magnus has repeated the words to himself often enough for them to form the blurred shape of an idea in his mind. “I told you when we met: I’m not a murderer. I don’t intend on becoming one.” 

Alec gulps down the rest of his drink, and the gin leaves a bitter taste on the tip of his tongue.

“Why do the good guys always have to choose the higher road?” he muses out loud, his voice punctuated with a ragged note of frustration.

It doesn’t necessarily warrant a response, and Magnus’ isn’t truly one. “I’m not one of the good guys,” he says, cynical, as if it is a fact he has long accepted.

Alec shakes his head. “I don’t think you get to decide that for yourself.”

Magnus’ lips jump with a beginning of smile that doesn’t quite reach the corner of his eyes. “Do you have the authority on what is good and bad, darling?”

Alec scoffs, but it is more resigned than amused. “I think good is good and bad is bad,” he says, “and it’s far less complicated than what people want it to be.”

Magnus is silent for a moment. Alec inwardly ventures a guess at the unutterable thoughts drifting through his eyes, but he remains perpetually unreadable. The reflection keeps them tranquil for a while, as though the depth of it can only be tarnished by spoken words.

Alec thinks they have dropped it entirely but then Magnus leans a little closer, his brown eyes and dark hair shining with the pink and orange lights peering through the window. 

“Are you one of the good guys, Alexander?”

He touches the tip of Alec’s fingers, gently, as though Alec were asleep and it was an automatism stronger even than his fear of waking him up from peaceful dreams.

“No,” Alec answers truthfully. It demands an effort he wasn’t expecting.

Magnus smiles something almost fond and demurely charmed, and brushes silent lips against Alec’s.

.

The practical thing to do is to book hotel rooms. Alec hasn’t had a mark –if he doesn’t count Magnus but that was enough of a fail for him to dismiss it– in over a month and he knows he hasn’t been followed, so he would normally go back to his apartment in Downtown Manhattan. That would imply exposing the address to Magnus, however, and neither of them trusts the other enough to do that. They find adjacent rooms in a big, four-star hotel South of Central Park instead.

Alec is exhausted by the time he steps into the room, shadowed by the late hour and the muted hues of the furniture. He wants nothing more but to drop headfirst into bed, but he has no such chance.

There’s a rap at the door as soon as he steps out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his hips he hasn’t had time to replace with clothes yet. Alec moves to open it but Isabelle barges in before he can reach it. She takes a look at him, perches on her high heels to ruffle his wet hair and unceremoniously drops on the bed, toeing her shoes off. They fall to the ground with a dull thud.

Alec tried to get her to stop doing that for a long time, but he has simply given up by now and accepted that this is among the few things he can’t have control over.

“Izzy, what the fuck? I told you I’d call tomorrow.”

It is, admittedly, not the best opening line to explain in more detail to his sister why he is here, in a room opposite the one of the man who was supposed to be their target and became something else. He called her quickly before boarding the plane back in Las Vegas, and Isabelle didn’t try to argue with him, but he knows she must have a thousand questions, which isn’t half as many as Alec does.

She narrows her dark eyes on him as she studies his posture, arms crossed over his chest.

“How many times have you slept with him?”

“I haven’t!”

“Oh, _please_.”

Her gaze flashes with disbelief, and Alec meets it stubbornly, standing in the middle of the carpeted floor with his brows notched and his lips pursed into an unimpressed line. They stare at each other defiantly, both of them unwilling to cave first, intent on camping on their positions.

Alec was never great at winning at this game when playing against Isabelle. Perhaps it is why she remains his Achilles’ heel even now that she has proved to him and the world that she doesn’t need protection from him or anyone else.

“Fine,” he grumbles, yielding. “Once.”

Isabelle quirks an eyebrow. “ _Alec_ ,” she hisses.

He fully groans this time. “And another time on the plane.”

She rolls on her stomach on the bed and gives him a look, the kind that he usually is the one giving instead of receiving. It’s an odd feeling, to be the one taken care of instead of the other way around. He isn’t quite sure if he likes it; the skin at the nape of his neck starts itching like a bad omen.

“Should I be worried?” she asks.

Alec scratches at his light stubble, shakes his head. “No.”

“Are you two… a thing?”

There is the hint of a smile on her lips, something almost hopeful and Alec chooses not to explore it. Ever since she met Clary and fell in love, his sister has had a tendency for appalling sentimentality that she didn’t have before.

“No.”

Isabelle pouts, resting her chin on her palm as she sprawls gracelessly on his bed. She reaches out for the sweets the hotel staff left on the night table for him, rips the package open with her teeth and bites into a chocolate bar, the epitome of nonchalance.

“And here I thought you had a change of heart because of true love and romantic passion,” Isabelle sighs wistfully, as if he has put a great dent to her plans.

Denial tries to shape in his mouth and Alec’s lips part, releasing a wisp of startled air.

“This isn’t a Jane Austen novel,” he huffs instead.

Isabelle snorts. “If it were, there would be a lot more pining and you wouldn’t have slept with him already.” She pauses, and a mischievous grin spreads on her face as she points at him with the chocolate bar. “Twice.” When Alec shows no sign of answering, swatting her hand away and giving her his most phlegmatic glare, she shrugs and takes another bite. “Why are we helping him then?”

“We’re helping him because it’s the right thing to do,” Alec mutters, hearing the lie in his own voice.

Isabelle looks utterly unimpressed, and he wonders inwardly what it says about him if his own sister doesn’t believe that he could do anything for transparent reasons. He can’t really fault her for it, not when he hasn’t proven to be pure of heart in far longer than he can remember.

“Let’s go with that,” she says airily, with a quiet chuckle that has him glowering.

He is about to answer but is interrupted by a knock on the door. He points a finger at her, but his words fail him again when he catches the unapologetic smugness in her gaze and he rolls his eyes instead, turning his back to her to open it.

He doesn’t know why he didn’t expect Magnus when no one else would know where to find him, but he is still surprised to find him standing there nonetheless, balancing a bottle of wine, two glasses and a stack of paper hazardously in his arms. His face is devoid of makeup and he’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that fits tightly around his biceps, his hair falling softly on his forehead without the product he usually wears.

A fleeting thought flashes through his mind that he is somehow just as attracted to this version of Magnus, bare-faced and looser than what he has let Alec see so far, as he is to his colder and armored persona, but Alec pushes it away.

“We didn’t get to really talk about this Luke Garroway guy on the plane,” Magnus says, his eyes roaming over Alec’s naked chest unabashedly. “I thought we could do that now.”

There is a hunger in his gaze that seems at home on his handsome features, and Alec really wishes he wasn’t so easily affected by the sight of it. It vanishes both from Magnus’ eyes and Alec’s mind the moment Isabelle saunters behind him before Alec can answer, rising on her tiptoes so she can rest her chin on Alec’s shoulder and give Magnus a once over.

“Ah, the right thing to do,” she says with a giggle. “Of course, hermano.”

Alec struggles to remain impassive and not push her away with a petulant plea to shut up. He rolls his eyes instead, which seems to have just about the same effect because Isabelle slips away from him and reaches out to grab the bottle of wine from Magnus’ hand with a grin.

“I’m Isabelle,” she says, sashaying away toward the minibar in search of a corkscrew.

“I’m… Magnus,” Magnus says, lifting an eyebrow at Alec in silent inquiry.

Alec shrugs, lips turned downwards, and a glimpse of amusement flashes through Magnus’ eyes as he shrugs back. It makes him look warm and impossibly younger than the years of hardship he bears on his shoulders should warrant for.

Alec smiles, unable to help himself, and Magnus’ face breaks into a matching grin. It is much more than a matching smile, however; it is one of those rare smiles with a quality of effortless radiance in it, the kind of smile that makes the receiver’s stomach inevitably flutter with warmth. It is a smile that none of Magnus’ aliases could give justice to, because it speaks of his soul more clearly than a mask ever could.

It doesn’t matter why he is truly doing it, Alec tells himself. This smile is proof in itself that it is, in fact, the right thing to do.

He motions Magnus inside with a jerk of his chin and walks away to the bathroom to put some clothes on, only slightly afraid to leave Isabelle alone with him.

.

Luke Garroway is a tall, sturdy Black man with dark, steady eyes and a supercilious air that establishes dominance at first glance but somehow not condescension. His face is grave and closed off and it doesn’t show any sign of recognition or a hint of sympathy as Magnus and Alec sit down in front of him.

The coffee shop where they are meeting is crowded, but the table Luke wisely chose is away from the line of customers waiting for their beverages and from the cozy area with plump couches and stylish ottomans that is clearly in higher demand.

Luke levels them both with a somber look.

“I’ll be clear with you right away,” he says before any of them can speak. His voice, a grave husky tenor, adds to the impression of severity he conveys. “I can’t help you.”

Alec lifts an eyebrow as Luke points a finger at him. “The only reason I accepted to meet you is because Clary put me up to it and she’s dating your sister.”

Perhaps Alec judged her too harshly. Perhaps Clary can serve a purpose other than annoying him to no end and compromising their strenuously earned safety.

Alec leans forward, wearing the polite, charming smile that usually gets him about anything he wants. “I’m sure that’s not true,” he says.

“I don’t know anything about Asmodeus Effendi,” Luke says with finality, clearly immune to Alec’s award-winning smile. His eyes shift over his face with a deeply disapproving frown. “And I don’t ever want his name to be mentioned by my daughter again. So whatever you’re trying to do, leave her out of it.” It’s a tone that strongly imparts that he doesn’t want the conversation to go any further than that. Alec’s mouth opens and closes, forced into silence by Luke’s callous gaze. “I can’t help you and I don’t want to talk about anything that remotely has to do with that man.” He shakes his head, but the gesture seems mostly meant for himself. “I don’t even know why I came.”

He picks up his coffee and goes to move from the bench, grabbing his jacket. Alec casts a quick look at Magnus at his side, but his face is unreadable. For a moment, Alec thinks he is going to let Luke go, and he can’t possibly grasp why he would, not after everything he has done, not with the determination Alec picked up in his tone when Magnus told him about his plans to deal with his father.

Before Alec can react and ask Luke to stay, Magnus moves swiftly, his fingers writhing around the man’s wrist. It’s a delicate touch, not forceful, and yet it exudes an air of authority that has Alec feeling some sort of way. Luke glances down at him with a frown, but Magnus doesn’t falter. He tips his head up to meet Luke’s gaze, unyielding.

“My name is Magnus Bane. Do you remember me?” he asks. He speaks in a low, gruff undertone. His voice is cold, but it is devoid of rancor. “Because I remember you very well. I remember everything about that day.”

He pauses, waits for realization to dawn on Luke’s features. His stern expression melts away, Alec guesses unwillingly, and he pales as his dark eyes widen on Magnus.

“I remember it was a beautiful day and she had told me we were going on a vacation back home in Indonesia. I remember the terror in her voice as she packed everything that had ever mattered to us in a ridiculously small duffel bag. I remember my hands, bloodied from trying to keep her alive even though it was pointless. I remember the fear in her eyes as she died. I remember the wait. I remember his face. No matter how much he tried to have me forget. No matter what I was told to believe. That day has been a cruel companion to my every step for over twenty years, but there is one thing I remember about it that is different from everything else. I remember the young officer who pried me off my mother’s body and showed me kindness when I needed it the most.”

His voice ebbs down into silence, and Alec is taken aback with the virulence of the need to reach out and bring some feeble comfort to Magnus that almost overcomes him. The thought of Magnus, such a strong, enticing and bright presence, being beaten by the kind of smothering darkness he had to endure is hard to cipher. He can’t picture him as the vulnerable child his words are speaking of, but Alec fathoms everyone has their demons and trauma, and everyone is entitled to what they do with it. Sometimes he feels awash in his own, but it seems silly to be thinking of his own father when what Magnus’ did destroyed two lives with a unique blow.

Luke’s face shifts, his hard demeanor driven away by Magnus’ candor. He gazes at Magnus for a long time, the noises of the coffee shop obnoxious around them, clashing with the heaviness of the moment.

Alec guesses at his expression, something awfully familiar in his dark eyes, and relaxes a little in his seat.

He reminds Alec a little of his mother, somehow. Strong, proud, but safe in an inexplicable way.

It’s been a while since Alec last called her, and even longer since he saw her –weeks, perhaps months– and he wonders whether she will still look at him that same way that makes both his skin crawl and his stomach lurch, as if he were still a little child begging for her attention. She looks at him like she is always on the verge of apologizing for everything, even what is objectively not her fault – _especially_ what is not her fault– but pondering on whether the blow to her pride will be worth it. They have never been great at expressing their feelings, and even less so when it could threaten to put them in a position of vulnerability they shy away from like the sun from the moon –inevitably.

“I remember too,” Luke says, finally.

A change has come over him, and he speaks gravely, but with conviction.

He slides back into the booth and looks directly at Magnus. “I was the first to arrive on the crime scene,” he says. “I have been trying very hard to forget for these past two decades.”

Magnus leans forward just as Alec leans back; this isn’t time for him to deploy the full palette of his skills to tear the information they need from an unsuspecting victim. Magnus doesn’t need him for that –in fact, a voice nags at the back of his mind that Magnus doesn’t need him at all.

Magnus accepted his help, he reminds himself. He might not need him, but there must be a part of him that at least wants him here, no matter how small or trivial.

It’s a purpose, something meaningful for him to fight for, and Alec doesn’t quite remember the last time he found that. Or he does, but he has tried very hard to suppress if not the memories at least the hole in his chest his own actions have left in consequence.

“You were in shock,” Luke says softly, carefully, as if the man he sees in front of him is a mirror back to the child he met that day. “You were gripping your mother, and you were refusing to let go.” His thumb toys with the cup sleeve for a moment. “Took me fifteen minutes to just get you to look at me,” he adds, and his gaze finds Magnus with the same compassion Alec imagines he tried to display that day.

Magnus doesn’t reply, doesn’t even show the slightest bit of emotion on his face.

Alec prides himself on his ability to wear a thousand names, play a thousand roles, sport a thousand masks, but Magnus is on a whole other level. Alec doesn’t think he could remain as impassive as Magnus is right now if confronted with the memory of the most traumatic day of his life. He doesn’t think there would be a lot of sadness –not anymore– but there is anger he hasn’t been able to depart from, not even in the years that have passed since he begged for his mother to choose him and she didn’t.

The scars on his shoulder are an eternal reminder of that day, and Alec hasn’t been able to look at them with anything but contempt for longer than he can recall.

But there is no contempt on Magnus’ features, no anger or sadness. There is simply focus.

Alec doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Your mother’s case wasn’t the most gruesome one I had been on,” Luke continues after a beat. “I was a rookie but in my line of work, you see things… Things that change you, that force you to accept humanity’s worst deeds as a banality so you can move on when you get home and they don’t haunt you. But you– this _kid_. You were so young and you had tried everything to save her even after she was long gone. There was something about you I couldn’t just leave behind.”

Luke runs a hand on his face, eyes shut in reminiscence.

When Magnus talks, it is with a clipped, almost aloof tone that has Alec’s head whipping back to him, “You told Lorenzo Rey you thought it wasn’t a suicide. What did Asmodeus offer you to shut you up?”

Luke’s dark eyes flicker open, and there is an ocean of regrets swimming before them. 

Alec doesn’t know what to make of that either, until Luke speaks again,

“He didn’t offer me anything,” he says slowly, as though making sure Magnus will believe him. “I worked for weeks on your mother’s case. I knew it wasn’t a suicide, but I couldn’t find any sustainable proof. After a while, I came to you. You hadn’t said a word to anyone ever since that day, so we hadn’t tried before but I heard they would soon be closing the case and putting you into the foster system, so I went to you before they could. I don’t know why you talked to me rather than anyone else.”

Magnus sighs, canting his head. If he knows the answer, as Alec suspects he does, he doesn’t offer it to Luke. But there is a shimmer of fondness in his gaze as he looks at him that is gone the next moment.

“What happened?”

“You told me it was Asmodeus who did it, and that he had said something about wanting to see his son. It didn’t really make sense, because that name had never been attached to the case before, but it’s not exactly a common name so I looked it up. Effendi was already famous at the time, and I found records of your mother working for him, so I just put two and two together. I went to my boss with a name, a witness and a motive, but he turned me down and told me to drop it and that the case would be closed the next day because it was an obvious suicide. I immediately knew he had been paid off, so I went to the commissioner, who said I needed more proof if I wanted to go after someone with Asmodeus Effendi’s power and influence. So that’s what I did. I dug up some evidence your mother had been Asmodeus’ mistress. I started to tail him to have an idea whether he had paid someone to smother the whole thing. Eventually, I got pictures of his cars plus his two drivers’ and I managed to find video footage of one of them near your apartment on the night of the murder. I just wanted to get justice for you. For your mother.”

The genuine compassion in his gaze has Alec wanting to reach out to Magnus again, so he can hold his hand or lean on him if the need arises, but he knows better. There is no reason for Magnus to be seeking physical comfort from him, and even less so some kind of emotional one.

Their relationship is not based on anything but carnal desire and a mutual albeit reluctant recognition of their kindred spirits.

That’s all there is. That’s all there ever can be.

This is what the second rule is for.

Still, Alec never was very good at ignoring people in pain, even when they are as good at hiding it as Magnus is. He knows the darkness that comes with it, the hold it keeps on your heart when it remains rampant. He knows it rips a part of you and leaves you incomplete forever. And as much as Alec wishes he could turn a blind eye to others’ pain, it has always been a proven way to ignore his own.

Alec decided he could bear it a long time ago, and there hasn’t been time since then to come back on it. He’s never really wanted to.

It lives inside him, alive and fierce.

He doesn’t wish that sort of everlasting pain on anyone –Magnus, perhaps least of all.

He knows that at some point in his life, he would have needed a hand reaching out to him, a smile chasing away the darkness, a touch to tether him to another reality than the grim one he was well-versed on.

And like Magnus, he learned not to ever mention it. He learned to bear the scars and the burden they entail –alone.

He lays his hand back on his knee.

Luke takes a sip of his coffee. His fingers are trembling just slightly; Alec wonders if he could have been more like him in another life –selfless enough to feel another’s pain as his own instead of trying to own it.

“I went back to the commissioner,” Luke says. “Three months had passed since your mother’s death and in those three months I was already too late. I never really knew exactly what happened, but I supposed Asmodeus’ bribes held more value to them than our oath. I was told again to let it go. I kept working on it on the side of my other cases, was skipped for a promotion because I had asked too many questions. Eventually, a year later, a reporter contacted me asking about your mother. I told him the truth, the truth I knew that no one had wanted to listen to. I thought that perhaps if my superiors didn’t want to listen to me, they would have no choice but to listen to the press.” He pauses, braces himself with a deep breath. “The day after he released his article, I got a visit from Asmodeus Effendi.”

Magnus flinches, the movement barely perceptible, before straightening up on his seat.

“He said it was admirable to meet officers of the law as driven as me, but that I was young. Too young to know what I was doing. Too young to understand what was going on and who held the real power. He was right on that account. I underestimated how crooked the system was. I told him he didn’t scare me and that I would be bringing him to justice. The next day, my fiancée was killed in a hit and run and I was suspended for three months.”

Alec feels like neither of them is displaying the surprise Luke probably expected. Alec, because he is starting to get a faint idea of exactly what kind of person Asmodeus Effendi is, and it is much worse than just a murderer, which was already sufficiently bad in itself. Magnus, because he probably knows his father too well. His eyes and mouth are frozen in an expression of nonplussed apathy. The only effect this conversation is having on him that Alec can surmise is in the slight blurriness of his gaze. Although he is staring straight at Luke, he appears not to be seeing him at all.

“When I got back, I was assigned to traffic duty. It took me fifteen years to get my career back on track. But I know I’m on thin ice, and as much as I’d like to help you, I can’t risk it again. And more importantly–” His gaze finds Alec, hard and unrepentant. “–I can’t risk Clary.”

A beat passes, and then he points a finger at Alec. “And I don’t trust you.”

A smirk curves at the corner of his lips, and Alec is about to reply but Magnus takes a hold of his knee under the table, squeezing just tightly enough not to be painful but a simple warning.

Alec gives a soft huff of derisive laughter, crossing his arms over his chest as he levels Luke with a silent look that means he very much feels the same way.

“I don’t need you to risk anything,” Magnus says. His grip loosens, but his hand stays on Alec’s knee, like an afterthought. Alec tries not to think too much of the swift, spiky thump of his heart. “I just need you to give me everything you used to build your case at the time. Pictures, reports, anything you think could be useful.”

Luke frowns, scratching at his beard. “Why?”

“It’s like Alec said to Clary,” Magnus replies, not a hint of disgenuinety on his features. “I’m building a case to prove Asmodeus killed my mother. I won’t need you to testify. I won’t put you or your daughter in danger. I won’t ask to ever talk to you again after today. If you’re asked about it, you’ll say those files were stolen and you don’t know anything about it.”

Luke purses his lips. “I–I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m really sorry, but I can’t help you. I have too much on the line.”

There is another silence, but Luke doesn’t try to leave this time. Magnus seems to be considering his next words, and Alec eyes him warily. He knows it shouldn’t be hard for Magnus to charm Luke into caving. Alec is well placed to know. He’s experienced his charms firsthand, how they slipped even from his trained eyes, how the velvet of his voice curled against his skin and murmured enticing promises to his ears, how the flicker of gold in his eyes reflected in the jewelry his wrists, neck and fingers were adorned with and drawn gazes exactly where Magnus wanted them.

There is none of Magnus’ effortless sensuality in his voice today, but Alec knows this is just one facet of his many masks by now, and that he has commandeered them all into mastery.

It could take just one word from him, uttered in the perfect intonation, veiled with precise and suitable intentions, for Luke to forget about his qualms and give him what he needs.

But Magnus sighs at his side, his shoulders slouching a little in defeat, and he doesn’t say anything.

He’s giving Luke the out he wants, and for the first time since Alec has met him, when he was called Malcolm Black and tricked him in more ways than he had realized, Alec sees him clearly. He sees the man behind the masks, the ethereal sliver of light in smothering darkness. He sees the pain, the hope, the guilt, the _heart_.

Magnus is kind, underneath everything else. That is his core, the essence of his person. That is what is most heartbreaking about him, and equally inspiring. That in the gruesome chaos of his strange life, in the face of the ugliest adversity, he has stayed kind.

That is something else Alec doesn’t know what to do with.

And yet he is speaking before he can stop himself, “I’ll steal them.”

Both Luke and Magnus’ heads snap to the side to look at him and Alec shrugs, although he doesn’t feel as nonchalant about it as he lets it transpire. “Tell us where those files are, and I’ll steal them. That way you won’t be incriminated and you can say you had no idea they still existed or something. You’ll stay off the hook.”

“What if you get caught?” Luke asks, lifting a dubious eyebrow.

Alec inwardly shudders at the mere idea.

Dark, empty, cold, lonely sums up what he remembers from jail. He can still picture the flicker of the fluorescent lights at the end of his corridors, can still hear the wails of the guilty claiming to be virtuous, can still see the hollowness in the gazes of the innocent.

He can still see the sadness on Isabelle’s face when they talked and feel the coldness of the glass separating them under his fingertips.

Alec inhales sharply, and pushes all of it away. “I already have a criminal record,” he says. “They won’t suspect you if I’m the one doing it.”

He can feel Magnus staring at him from the side, his lips pulled into a tight line. His hand is still resting on Alec’s knee, nothing but a dead weight, as if he has just forgotten it there. Then his fingers move, deliberate, and they speak words Magnus will not allow himself to utter out loud in front of a man who holds a position that means neither of them can appear vulnerable.

 _I can’t ask you to do this,_ they spell across Alec’s clothed skin.

He gives Magnus a quick look, and he forgoes the masks, the roles, the lies. Scams and treachery have no place in this. They stayed in Las Vegas, and Alec thinks he might have left another piece of himself there, but he refuses to ponder on it.

 _You don’t have to ask,_ his eyes reply.

Magnus’ lips part and close again, a question dancing in the depth of his brown eyes.

“The only copy stayed with the man who was commissioner then,” Luke says, and Alec glances back at him, cursing the relief that washes over him at the distraction. “The copy I gave to my bosses was replaced with a falsified one, but he has the original one. He served for ten years, and he took everything of importance with him when he left.”

“It’s been twenty years,” Alec remarks. “How do you know he hasn’t thrown it away?”

“Because it’s leverage, and men who have as much power as he does know better than to get rid of it. He’s not above using it for his own personal gain.”

Alec quirks an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading on his lips. “Just my kind of guy,” he quips.

Luke stares at him like he’s seriously doubting his mental health. But Magnus scoffs out a quiet laugh at his side, and Alec thinks it’s a small victory in itself.

“As a matter of fact,” Luke continues, “I’m convinced he used it not so long ago, to get elected.”

Magnus lifts an eyebrow, and Luke heaves out a deep sigh. “His name is Malachi Dieudonné.”

Alec fights back a shudder.

“As in the current Mayor of New York?” Magnus asks.

Luke nods.

Alec recites every single swear word he knows in his head.

.

When they get back to the hotel, Alec follows Magnus into his room without really asking. It seems to be relatively consistent with everything else in regard to their relationship. Or lack thereof.

Magnus doesn’t bat an eye.

Alec expects him to make a beeline for the minibar –it’s safe to assume he needs a drink after the mental toll the encounter with Luke had to take on him– but instead he swirls around to face Alec the moment the door is closed.

“Why did you offer to steal those files?” he asks, the words spilling out of his mouth. It’s not hard for Alec to surmise that he’s been keeping them in for the whole way back.

He shrugs. “Because I can.”

Shock flashes on Magnus’ face. “So what?” he wheezes out.

Surprise gives way to anger and Alec blinks in bewilderment. “Are you mad at me or something?”

Magnus shuts his eyes and takes in a sharp breath, but it seems to do nothing to quell his rising anger, his jaw flexing as he grits his teeth.

“Why did you offer to steal them?”

Alec lifts an eyebrow. “You need them,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I don’t want your pity!” Magnus snaps, running a hand through his hair. He speaks the next words mostly to himself, “I should’ve known that was why you were so hellbent on helping me. I should know better than to believe this bullshit of code of honor by now.”

“Hey!” Alec protests, sounding just as offended as he feels. “I don’t pity you. And I do have rules.” He pauses, sarcasm dripping off his tongue, “Although code of honor sounds very piratey and I like it. I might use that from now on.”

Magnus just looks exasperated now, and his gaze is hard when it falls on Alec. “Stop with the charming wit, it’s annoying.”

Alec wets his lips, smirking. “Is it?” When Magnus’ face doesn’t shift into something amiable, he sighs instead. “I don’t pity you, okay? I just want to help.”

“Why?”

And Alec doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t know what to tell him, doesn’t know why he feels like he owes Magnus this, when Magnus was the one who cheated him in the first place. He doesn’t know how to tell him that Magnus has had a lifetime of people taking, and taking, and _taking_ from him, and Alec doesn’t want to be one of them. He wants to be someone that gives back, because it feels like Magnus is entitled to it by now, like he’s earned it.

He doesn’t know how to tell him that this –helping Magnus– is a purpose. And he’s been lacking one for too long.

So he doesn’t.

He slips his hands in his pockets, as if such a simple gesture could guard him from the blend of confusion, anger and hope in Magnus’ eyes, and glances back at him.

“I don’t know,” he says, and it’s closer to the truth than he wants to admit. “I just think you deserve it, I guess.”

It’s not eloquently put, but it’s the best Alec can do without lying or admitting too much.

The anger melts from Magnus’ features. There is another silence, heavy but short-lived.

And then Magnus crosses the distance between them in two strides, curls his fingers around Alec’s collar and swallows his sharp intake of breath with his lips. Alec should know by now that he can never really tell when Magnus is going to kiss him.

Even when they first met, both wearing names they didn’t truly own, Magnus had caught him by surprise. When they kissed in Las Vegas, it was mere minutes after Magnus had cursed him with colorful words.

It keeps Alec on his toes more than he’d like to admit. He can never tell if his interactions with Magnus are going to end up in ravenous kisses, huffs of annoyance or fabricated indifference. It’s dizzying and thrilling all at once, but dangerous above all.

And yet, Alec can’t bring himself to care, not when Magnus’ lips roam on his burning skin, ferocious against the stubbled curve of his throat. Alec’s chest is heaving already, and his mind a fog of desire and utter confusion –which seems to be a perpetual state whenever he shares the same air as Magnus.

“Magnus,” he murmurs, although he doesn’t know what he wants to say. The name unfurls past his lips with a regard Malcolm’s never did, like it is something precious, a truth Magnus has granted him.

Magnus looks up at him and presses his mouth to Alec’s, gently tugging his bottom lip between his teeth as he pulls back, a devilish smirk glimmering in his amber eyes.

“Alexander?” he whispers back, teasing.

Alec tries to find his words all while letting Magnus pull him toward the bed by the loops of his trousers. He fails rather spectacularly. 

Alec’s eyes flicker down to Magnus’ shirt and the throng of necklaces resting elegantly against his muscular chest.

“Nothing,” he scoffs out, and descends on Magnus’ lips.

He’ll remember what he wanted to say later. Or perhaps he won’t, and it might be for the best.

.

Alec doesn’t usually stay long enough for either of them to recover from the afterglow. It’s been a mutual and tacit agreement between them that although the sex is phenomenal, they are also phenomenally good at avoiding the domestic intimacy that can follow if one of them _lingers_.

Most of the time, Magnus calls him _pretty boy_ in that derisive tone of his that Alec knows is meant to be hurtful but somehow only manages to have him roll his eyes, and Alec takes it as his cue to leave. Sometimes, it’s not even necessary because Alec is already getting dressed before Magnus gets a chance to find his bearings again in the tumultuous waters they ventured in from the moment they first engaged.

Alec is thus unequipped to deal with the sight of Magnus fast asleep.

Magnus must have hidden the way the meeting with Luke had affected him more skillfully than Alec had realized, because the moment he fully allows himself to relax –which Alec thinks he can take at least half of the credit for– the weariness resting on his body seems to catch up all at once. He is already deep into slumber by the time Alec walks out of the bathroom fresh out of the shower, with a towel for Magnus to clean himself up with.

Magnus’ silky dark hair is spread on the pillow, his skin a clashing gold against the immaculate white sheets. His strong arm is flung out over the space Alec had occupied just moments ago, the gold shimmering around his wrist shifting with the light of the sunset, bathing him in a celestial glow. His lips are slightly parted and his brows notched into a subtle frown, soft snores fleeting from his mouth.

It’s the least elegant Alec has ever seen him, and yet undoubtedly the most beautiful.

Sighing to himself, Alec resigns himself to a fate he doesn’t quite understand as he walks to the bed. He sits next to Magnus’ hip and reaches out with the towel to wipe his stomach clean, keeping his movements as minute as possible so as not to wake him.

Magnus mumbles something inaudible in his sleep. Alec’s gaze whips up to him, more panicked than he would admit to anyone conscious enough to notice, but Magnus doesn’t budge. His lips part a little, and Alec goes very still, his breath hitching in his throat. No word actually comes out, but Magnus lets out a tiny whimper, and the peaceful expression he was sporting just moments ago vanishes entirely. His brows dip into a frown, his eyes screwed shut and Alec should just walk away now. He should go back to his own room on the other side of the hallway. He should take what little sanity and sense of self-preservation he has left and go.

Alec’s thumb brushes gingerly between Magnus’ eyebrows.

His scowl shifts slightly, and fades entirely when Alec’s fingers move to gently push back the soft lock of hair falling on his forehead. Magnus huffs and curls on his side, drifting closer.

It prompts Alec to hastily pull his hand back and he scutters to his feet and away from the bed, naked chest heaving. 

He’s not supposed to do this, worrying for anyone who isn’t family to him.

It’s a horrible feeling, and it is spreading from the tingling tip of his fingers to the belligerent thump of his heart. That idea shaping in his head that perhaps alone is not all that he can be. Perhaps he can even be something else entirely.

He’s been there before –hoping for something else. But the silence around him is familiar; he is more accustomed to it than his own name.

Alec likes familiar. He likes the semblance of stability he finds in it, even when it is flawed.

He likes his rules, the second one in particular, for he crafted them to palliate the loneliness. 

He needs to do what he does best and clear his head, and they have a whole new target to work on. Alec grabs his laptop from the coffee table in Magnus’ room and sinks into the couch.

And then he gets to work.

.

Isabelle likes to jokingly say that nothing can disturb Alec when he is in what she calls his “big-brain zone.” She isn’t wrong, because it usually takes either exhaustion or his sister throwing something at his face to pull him out of it.

It’s why his eyebrows notch into a scowl when he is disrupted just as he is finishing writing down everything he can gather on Malachi Dieudonné’s rather suspicious self-made fortune, his handwriting barely readable to anyone but himself. That’s also a side effect of his extreme focus.

His first instinct is to bark at Izzy to let him concentrate, almost a reflex at this point, but it is a silly one when he is still tucked away from the world in Magnus’ hotel room with nothing for company but the sleeping man, his own laptop and pages and pages of notes on Asmodeus Effendi and what a terrible person he is.

His second reaction, much stronger and increasingly worrying, is an immediate spur of his natural protective instincts. The sound didn’t come from an overbearing sibling, or from his own sleep-deprived mind. It came from the bed, and from his spot on the couch, Alec can see clearly that Magnus is thrashing between the sheets, his handsome features pulled into a mask of anguish.

He is mumbling under his breath, but his voice is slowly rising, as if every second passing is hauling him deeper into an abyss of darkness.

Alec tries to ignore it. He does.

It’s not his business if Magnus has nightmares –he has them too.

Perhaps it is because he has been telling the truth more often than he is used to lately that the lie he tells himself doesn’t quite hit its mark. Instead, Alec’s eyes blur on the screen of his laptop and drift back to Magnus almost instantly.

What finally prompts him to move is a single word.

A quiet ‘no’ murmured in sleep. It is layered with pain, smothered in torment, drowned in grief.

Alec’s stomach lurches.

“No,” Magnus says, louder, more a sob than a comprehensive word.

Alec’s heart breaks.

He’s on his feet before he can truly ponder on it –which is odd in itself, and also something he doesn’t want to think about. 

When he makes it to the bed, Magnus isn’t thrashing around anymore, not like Alec expected him to be anyway. There is this air on his face, tearing through the rest Magnus doesn’t get, like everything bad that ever happened to him is pushing against his ribcage, paralyzing him with terror. He is immobile, though, and no words are slipping past his lips without his current state being able to knowingly hold everything back.

For a moment, Alec thinks he might have imagined the whole thing, another consequence of his protective instincts that never stay dormant for long. At least, not with people he cares about.

And that is, after all, the root of the problem.

Somewhere along the way, between tricking each other and those odd moments of truth they reluctantly share, Alec started to care more deeply than he had anticipated. More deeply than he wanted to.

To himself, he can admit that this is what prompts him to reach out and grab Magnus’ shoulder, shaking gently.

Magnus’ reaction is immediate. He gives a strangled cry and wakes with a start, sweating and shivering all at once. Blurry eyes flip through the room as though he doesn’t know where he is, cradling the sheets pooling down his hips with a firm grip. Eventually, his gaze falls on Alec, and the terror vanishes as his surroundings become clear.

He pulls himself away, scared perhaps that Alec will see more than Magnus wants him to, and he stumbles his way to the bathroom, naked body still quivering. Alec can’t bring himself to move, frozen on the bed as he listens to the water run and Magnus’ pants slowly ebb to normal breathing.

When Magnus walks back to the bedroom, he quickly picks up his briefs from the floor and shrugs them on, and although his eyes bear into Alec’s with stubborn resolve, Alec has the distinct impression that Magnus isn’t looking at him at all. His gaze is too rigid to be true, his mouth turned downwards.

The silence stretches for a while, cold and uncomfortable.

Even through the carefully constructed mask, though, Alec can see the truth, plain and unforgiving: Magnus is hurting.

Magnus is always hurting, even and especially when he assumes the role of this person nothing can touch.

“Are you okay?” Alec asks, because if his protective instincts are outstanding, his sense of self-preservation is abysmal.

Magnus blinks, and then he is Malcolm Black, gorgeous and devilishly sensual, smart and unapologetic. It is the game they play, presenting each other with the whole palette of faces they wear to throw the other off the hint of who they truly are, of who they truly could be.

Magnus’ fingers brush idly against Alec’s forearm, a clumsy and desperate attempt at a distraction. A smirk is pulling at his lips, his features relaxed into that seductive quality that seems to draw Alec to him like a moth to the delicious temptation of a flame. It’s a strategy that has well proven its efficiency by now.

But Alec doesn’t want to play.

There’s a word echoing in his mind, the small ‘no’ Magnus uttered in his sleep, layered with such agony that it threw his whole world off its axis.

“Magnus,” he says, firmly enough that the mask is washed away from his beautiful features. Alec’s brows pinch into a frown. “Is it… what you told Luke about that day?”

It’s the best he can do, for them to be something else than what they are now. For him to perhaps let Magnus know that this has become more than just another round of the game, that there is something about Magnus that inspired him to be another version of himself, somehow. A version that he thought he had become wholly estranged to, and yet that feels more authentic than what years of deception have taught him to be.

But whether they allow this to be more than a never-ending game, more than another ploy for an obscure and miserly sense of self-achievement is Magnus’ choice just as much as him.

It’s an open door. A part of him still wishes Magnus will simply slam it in his face and provide him with the perfect excuse to walk away before it takes over more than Alec would allow if he was thinking in the same methodic, calculated way he has taught himself to think about everything else. But another hopes for something else, and it is slowly starting to overpower all of Alec’s hard-earned walls.

Eventually, Magnus shakes his head, and Alec knows the vulnerability in his gaze is not a facade, if only because Magnus has nothing to gain from letting his guard down.

His lips pull into a sad smile. “I lied,” he says.

Alec frowns, but keeps his mouth shut.

“Truth is I don’t remember much about that day, not even half of what I told Luke anyway. I know it happened, but I don’t remember. I don’t even remember much about her either. I think my mother loved me, a lot more than she loved herself. But I don’t know if I imagined it. I know none of my foster families loved me very much for the decade or so that followed, so maybe I just don’t know what parental love is supposed to feel like.”

Alec can’t imagine what it must feel like, but his heart constricts in his chest all the same.

His relationship with his own mother might be strained, but he has no doubt that deep down she loves him. She may not allow herself to show it, and they might both be utterly terrible at communicating their mutual care for the other, but there are few things Alec knows with as much certainty as this. Even when everything was bleak and Alec was lost between rage, an overpowering need for revenge and self-hatred he hasn’t quite managed to rise against yet, there was this certitude. This immutable truth.

What Magnus speaks of is unfathomable, but it’s also because it is Magnus and Alec can not quite understand the mere idea of his mother not loving him, or the child he was then. Even hardened by the years, even with his heart having been broken more often than Alec can surmise with how little he truly knows of him and the depth of the trauma that follows his every step, there is a kindness to his smiles when he lets himself be true.

Perhaps it is because Alec has been paying attention, but the infinite strength woven through his every smile, even the skillfully staged ones, is plain to see.

It reminds him of something Isabelle once told him about Clary, after they had argued once again about his disdain for her, which Isabelle couldn’t be fooled into taking for casual indifference.

_If you only took the time to know her and stopped being so fucking guarded all the time, you’d understand why I feel about her the way I do._

Alec had discarded the idea with a wave of his hand and silently waited for the day Isabelle would grow tired of Clary and things would go back to the way they were.

Now he wonders if it has something to do with this –paying attention. Perhaps Isabelle simply saw what he wouldn’t because she was looking, not for a flaw, not for foul intentions, but for the things everyone else was quick to dismiss.

Magnus blinks back up at him and smiles, something real and devastating. “After she died, it came to my father’s attention that I was a witness. He didn’t see me there, because my mother had hidden me in the bathroom and I was too petrified to try to come out. But well… I saw the whole thing, and I tried to tell people. Officer Garroway, in particular. Not long after, I was taken to my first _therapist_.” The way he mutters the word has dread coursing through Alec’s body. “They tried to convince me I had imagined the whole thing. When I refused to comply, they gave me pills to supposedly help me cope with the trauma. They mostly made reality blurry, which was convenient for my father.”

“Fuck,” Alec whispers –in disbelief or horror, he isn’t sure.

“That’s what the nightmares are about,” Magnus says in a breath. “What’s real and what’s not. Sometimes I have trouble telling the difference. I’ve mostly sorted it out by now; I’ve been away from all of this for over fifteen years, but it’s a conscious effort and my subconscious hasn’t fully caught up.”

Alec thinks of their talk in the plane, of Magnus telling him he doesn’t intend on becoming a murderer, of his unrelenting will to be better than the people who wronged him.

But it’s so much worse than he imagined. He hadn’t surmised even the tip of Magnus’ trauma. How a single man could do such damage with seemingly no remorse. It is baffling that Magnus can even function and hold himself with such poise and apparent stability.

He doesn’t know what to say. There isn’t much to say at all.

Instead, he reaches out and tentatively finds Magnus’ hand with his own.

“I’m sorry,” Alec says. It’s meant to come out stronger than the murmur it winds up being.

Magnus shrugs all the same, but doesn’t say anything.

There is something cynical about the gesture, and Alec is struck, again, by how resilient Magnus is. How he keeps getting back up despite the odds stacked against him, despite the brutal beatings life has riddled his path with.

Magnus’ gaze shifts to the window, lost for a moment in the blackness of the night. From this vantage, it almost looks like New York has stopped rushing, the city still at last.

“We should get some sleep,” Magnus says, his tone punctured with a hint of vulnerability that isn’t displayed in his gentle eyes, a sliver of hope in his next words, “You can stay if you want.”

When Oliver Smith met Malcolm Black, Alec still bore the foolish thought that as long as his lies stood strong around him, he could contemplate the idea that nothing could hurt him. Magnus is just a person. He’s just a person like every other person, and Alec has spent most of his life preventing people from snatching the pieces of him the lies are meant to preserve. 

Perhaps the whole difference is that Magnus never asked for those pieces of him. He just wandered into Alec’s life and somehow reached through the lies for the truth Alec had buried deeper than even he could reach, taking it hostage. Alec doesn’t think he can pretend anymore, not to Magnus anyway.

And Magnus now holds in his grip the power of devastation his own hurt can cause Alec. It’s a terrifying thought, like a glass splinter working its way to his heart without any recess for him to breathe.

It’s so staggering Alec forgets he never stays the night.

Or the morning, or the afternoon –he has found out his proclivities for having wild, mind-blowing sex with Magnus go around the clock.

He forgets he has a rule, one he secretly blamed Isabelle for breaking.

It’s the second rule: Don’t have anything in your life you can’t walk away from without a second thought.

The rules are meant to protect them. And if Isabelle never really cared for them, Alec has always deemed their importance capital.

Because even more than shielding them from the laws they are breaking, it guards them from this kind of hurt, the one they feel on behalf of others, the one that comes with caring too much and too deeply. The one that prevents them from leaving behind everyone but each other.

Perhaps the rules were never there for their benefit.

They stem from his own trauma, his own fears, his own need to control even the slightest contingency of life so he can come out unscathed every time.

Perhaps their only purpose was to protect him, and just him.

Still, Alec stays.

**Author's Note:**

> plot twist: alec's rules are bullshit.
> 
> I'm on twitter [@_L_ecrit](https://twitter.com/_L_ecrit) if you wanna come and say hi.
> 
> I hope you're all doing well.
> 
> All the love,  
> Lu.


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